Waiting for work

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While we voted, the labourers waited for the day’s toil
While we counted, they waited for the day’s work
While we celebrated, they waited to beat the sun
While psephologists lectured at teashops,
Policies made and unmade at guarded mansions,
They waited for the day’s work,

They cannot see anything beyond today’s walls
Of hunger, poverty and illness,

They wait like the slaves to be bought or sold
At American slave-haats or
They wait like the painted women
To be bought for an hour’s orgy
At the big cities’ blind alleys

They are the pillars of our society
And they wait invisibly at street corners
To buy a meal in exchange for their body fluids.

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I write because there is some lie that I want to expose, some fact to which I want to draw attention, said George Orwell. As a writer, I never kowtow to the whims and dictates of the sacred godmen or godwomen, the political bigots and hypocrites, dealers of laymen, the dishonest and self-serving intellectuals, traders of religions, the betrayers of ‘other’ Indians who eke out a living by their sweat, who are living in fear for being lynched for this and that.

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